August 4, 2012
There is only a little seed, called sincerity. Truth comes afterward. She knows because she wakens humming. I know because I hear her voice.
There is only a seed, the merest, basest seed. But its presence is alarming, disturbing, demanding. She knows because she pours it out. I know because I drink it.
Truth is broader, wider, sainted. Truth is in a book–it looks best down on paper. She knows because she lies to me. I know because I play along.